


Hard To Be Soft, Tough To Be Tender

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:46:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Sam has been out of the cage for almost a year and Dean wants to know why he's only just finding out...





	

  
[Hard To Be Soft, Tough To Be Tender](http://www.sinful-desire.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=3712) by [PinkWithoutPlot](http://www.sinful-desire.org/archive/viewuser.php?uid=2419)  


  
Summary: Sam has been out of the cage for almost a year and Dean wants to know why he's only just finding out...  
Categories: Sam/Dean > Overall Series Characters:  Dean, Sam  
Fun Genres:  None  
Genres:  Angst, First Time, Hurt & Comfort, PWP  
Warnings:  Violence  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  1 Completed: Yes  
Word count: 6415 Read: 1720  
Published: 10/03/2010 Updated: 10/03/2010 

Story Notes:

This is set at the beginning of Season 6 (spoilers for Exile on Main Street) with direct reference to other episodes from previous seasons - specifically Mystery Spot, Dark Side of the Moon and Swan Song.

This is my first fanfic - the boys made me do it! Clearly, I am in no way affiliated with Supernatural, and am simply borrowing these beautiful characters for my own dubious gratification ;)

Chapter 1 by PinkWithoutPlot

  
_“I don't care if there's mercy, I don't care if there's none.  
I don't care if it hurts me, I don't care if it's fun.  
I don't care if it's first thing, or if it's altogether shunned.  
I don't care if there's cursing, I don't care if there's come.”_

Phosphorescent, 'I Don't Care If There's Cursing'  
  
  
“How long, Sam?”  
  
Sam's eyes dart fitfully before his gaze settles once more on his brother's pale green stare. His tongue sweeps out to moisten his lips.  
  
“About a year.”  
  
_“About a year?”_  
  
Dean's voice breaks slightly – snags on the last word. His brow is furrowed and his mouth shapes itself around myriad questions which remain stubbornly lodged in his throat. Eventually, incredulous, he splutters,  
  
“You've been back pretty much this _whole time_?”  
  
Sam lowers his eyes, unable or unwilling to meet the confusion and hurt clouding Dean's peridot irises.  
  
“Dean, I -” but his words are cut short as Dean's fist clips his jaw, snapping his head back.  
  
Sam tastes blood and realises he's bitten his own tongue. He waits a few heartbeats for his vision to clear and reaches one long arm towards his brother. Tries again.  
  
“Dean! Please, man. I just wanted -”  
  
“You wanted _what_ , Sam? Hmm? Wanted me nice and cosy and numb in my apple pie life before you pulled the rug out from under me? Maximum impact – is that it?”  
  
“How could you even _think_ that, Dean?”  
  
“Then _what_ , Sam? You just wanted rid? I mean what gives you the right to let me think you were gone forever and then just turn up here all...”  
  
Exasperated, Dean trails off.  
  
Sam wipes blood off his lip with the back of his hand and takes a tentative step towards him as Dean scrubs a hand over his face and through his hair. Backs up.  
  
“After everything we've been through, I just wanted you to have a shot at a normal life.”  
  
Dean snorts, incredulous, but Sam continues.  
  
“We'd said goodbye. We both thought that was it, Dean.”  
  
Sam pauses, and studies Dean's expession before continuing. His brother's face is pained, like he's right back on that field a year ago, bleeding and alone.  
  
“Then I was out somehow, and it was still too raw and I knew that if I came straight back to you we'd have to look at each other every day and relive the last few years. You thought I was dead. I wanted you to have some peace. I thought that with time -”  
  
“ _Time_?” Dean interrupts. “You know, after I saw you fall into the pit all I wanted was to forget. Sleep and never wake up. Lights out. Fuck it, y'know. Maybe this time I'd be allowed to just _die_. But I didn't. Know why, Sam?”  
  
Sam's eyes are downcast. He knows the answer.  
  
“Because I promised you. I promised _you_. And I tried to find a way to bring you back - ”  
  
Sam opens his mouth to round on his brother for reneging on that part of the deal, but one glance at Dean's face and he keeps his silence.  
  
“But nothing worked. _Nothing_. So I end up going through the motions. Doing a crappy job, coming home, watching crappy TV, being a crappy boyfriend and _father_...Jesus. Drinking too much and having nightmares. Trying my hardest to do what other people do, but it's not good enough because not a single day goes by when...I couldn't stop thinking about you down there, you son of a bitch. And all this time...”  
  
Dean's voice cracks and Sam sees unspilled tears brighten his eyes. Something cold and heavy uncoils in his stomach at that. He looks away – tries to think of anything he can say to make this OK. He tries to close the distance between them again, slowly, carefully. His hands are up in a gesture of supplication.  
  
“With me gone, you had a chance to be with someone who didn't know how you'd come by every single scar on your body, Dean. Who didn't know that when you wake up in the night, bathed in sweat, that you're right back there in Hell. Someone who would be content with _life_. With us it's never enough. The things we've done for each other... _to_ each other, it's...”  
  
It's Sam's turn to falter as the enormity of everything he feels seeing Dean again presses on his chest and leaves him panting, struggling for air.  
  
“It's what, Sammy?”  
  
“It's _too much_ , Dean. Don't you see that? It's not natural. We're not good for each other.”  
  
Dean swipes at his eyes again and slumps down on one of the old crates lying about the garage. He tries to regulate his breathing. Finally he looks up at Sam, and says,  
  
“So why did you come here?”  


It's been a year since they were together like this, in a dump of a motel, their respective duffel bags on twin beds, sitting at a rickety table with a lap top, clippings and junk food spread out before them. Sam rubs absent mindedly at the warm, swollen area which Dean's knuckles left on his jaw. His eyes periodically leave the screen and flicker up to his brother's face. Dean is scowling down at the jumble of papers and cuttings, but every now and then he feels the weight of Sam's expectant stare and he looks up through his lashes. His little brother is quick to avert his eyes back to the screen before Dean can meet them, but he catches the tiny, tell-tale movement behind his lids, feels the ghost of that look like a physical presence at the table.  
  
Eventually, Dean can't stand any more and barks,  
  
“Got something on your mind, Sammy?”  
  
It's a loaded question. Sam looks up, takes a long swallow of his soda, throat working noisily, and finally says,  
  
“It's just...it's us. Here. Could be any other day. Doesn't feel like the last year really happened.”  
  
Dean blinks slowly, his lips twisting in a wry smile.  
  
“Well it did, Sam. It did happen. Every day for a year I thought you were suffering. Gone. For good. I mean we've both had our fair share of Lazarus moments, but -”  
  
Sam stands up abruptly, his chair tipping back on its feeble legs as he shoves himself away from the table.  
  
“I don't know how many more ways I can say sorry, Dean! I thought it was for the best. And it hasn't exactly been a picnic for me either. If there was any other way, believe me, I wouldn't be here now. I would have left you alone. I swear. You'd have been safe, and loved and, one day, you may even have been truly happy. I know that! But I didn't know what else to do.”  
  
He strides over to the bed and slumps down, head cradeled in his large hands. The air is thick with tension and the threat of misjudged words. Then Dean says,  
  
“You still don't get it, do you? You had no right to make that choice for me, Sammy.”  
  
All the sarcasm and venom is gone from his voice. Instead he speaks almost softly, as if to a child, and Sam thinks maybe the sadness he hears there is worse than the anger. He feels like he's ten years old again, and Dean is telling him Dad won't be home for Christmas.  
  
“All the times I tried to picture myself happy, with a family of my own, I guess my mind did wander to Lisa and Ben. I mean, they're...they're terrific, Sam. They really are. Ben he's...”  
  
He wants to say 'like us' but the admission sticks somewhere in his chest.  
  
“But I was lying to myself. I'm not a regular person. All the things we've seen and done. Was just plain stupid to think it was ever gonna work out. I was there because you asked me to be there and because I didn't know what else to do. It wasn't fair. To anyone.”  
  
Dean stands and takes a few steps towards Sam. He suddenly feels bone tired.  
  
“I've been so numb, Sammy.” He sighs. “I'm a Winchester. A hunter. A _soldier_. How long would it've been before that emptiness got too much and I started trying to fill it up again, huh? Fill it with bar brawls and drunken hook-ups and taking risks? Looking for trouble - 'cause that's what I _do_.”  
  
Sam tries to think of something to say to that, to protest, but in his heart he knows Dean is right. He's still here because he promised Sam he wouldn't come after him, that he wouldn't do anything rash. But Sam's not deluded enough to believe his older brother wouldn't take him himself slowly apart, piece by piece, instead. He's always been a stubborn son of a bitch.  
  
When he finally looks up, Dean is shrugging on his jacket and heading for the door.

 

It's late when he comes stumbling back into their room. The lights are off and Sam is in bed, drowsy but too worried about Dean to actually sleep, his cell phone clutched to his chest. Sam smells the stale alcohol tang enveloping his brother as he staggers over and lands heavily on the other bed with a loud exhalation.  
  
“You OK, man?” he ventures quietly.  
  
“Yeah. Peachy, Sammy.” Dean's words are slurred and he's breathing heavily.

Every sound is amplified in the darkness and Sam listens to his brother shifting restlessly, the leather of his jacket creaking. He sighs. They seem to have gone back to angry and belligerent.  


Sam isn't sure he can fix it this time. He's fucked up a lot in their short lives, and he's not certain Dean will forgive him again. He's still bruised from their trip to Heaven, taking Sam's fond memories of freedom and indepenence as proof that he had been itching to get away from his older sibling, when nothing could be further from the truth.  
  
He knows his latest attempt to keep Dean safe and to give him a chance at contentment will be perceived as just another abandonment. He tells himself he would have stayed away forever if it hadn't been for the new influx of weird cases, but immediately knows this for the lie it is.  
  
So why exactly did he try to break from Dean again? And why is his heart hammering at his ribcage being in this proximity to his brother? Dean smells of Rye and Bud chasers, worn leather, motor oil and something else. A warm, slightly spicey odour which is unmistakably Dean and which makes Sam think 'home'.  
  
There aren't words enough for the mess of half thoughts and confliting emotions Sam has zipping around his head. His blood is thundering in his ears and his skin feels too sensitive somehow – stretched taut over his wiry frame. His body moves of its own volition and suddenly he's closing the small physical distance between the beds and standing over his brother's prone form. Sam feels like he's teetering on the edge of something.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Dean's voice is wary, drink-rough.  
  
“No more little heart-to-hearts tonight, Sam. I'm tired.”  
  
He tries to sound offhand, but it's too close to the truth.  
  
Dean feels the matress dip as his brother perches on the edge, and he levers himself up on his elbows. He can see Sam's profile in the sodium glow from the parking lot which permeates the threadbare curtain fabric. He looks like he's someplace far away for a few seconds then he turns to Dean, his eyes filling, and reaches out a hand towards his brother's face.  
  
Dean flinches at first, his reactions slowed by the drink, but Sam stays put, barely brushing skin, tracing the line of his jaw with a feather light touch. He has this strange, devestated look and Dean's stomach is churning under the scrunity of it. He opens his mouth to say something – anything – but nothing comes. The world seems to tilt and Dean realises either his balance is further off than he thought or Sam is moving, his face bearing down over his own.  
  
Dean wonders in the final few seconds before their lips meet if this is honestly the last thing he expected to happen, or whether they've been sliding inevitably towards it their whole lives.  
  
Sam's lips are warm and dry and Dean remembers he smells like a distillary – feels briefly self-conscious – tries to remind himself this is pretty weird behviour, even for them, and that he should break it off. But then Sam is nudging his mouth open, and his tongue is licking tentatively at Dean's lower lip. Dean is drunk and so damn _grateful_ his baby brother is here and breathing that, God help him, he lets this happen.

Sam is coaxing his lips apart and when his tongue finds its way inside the slick warmth of Dean's mouth, both sets of eyes fly open. Still they remain, tongues gently slipping against each other's, shocked eye to shocked eye for a few moments.  
  
Then Sam's fall shut and he lets out a moan which has the duel effect of making Dean's rapidly hardening cock twitch against his fly, and bringing him back into himself with a start. It's too like the familiar sound of his brother in pain, and at the the same time like nothing he's heard from him before. Sure, he's been privy to a few stifled gasps here and there when the lights are out and Sam thinks Dean is asleep, or the odd sigh beneath the sound of running water when Sam takes a little too long in the shower. But this is different. It's low and dirty and completely helpless and it's _because of Dean_.  
  
The realisation has him shoving Sam hard in the chest and Dean is up off the bed and in the bathroom before Sam has had chance to flick the lamp on. He clicks the lock home, just manages to lift the toilet seat and drop to his knees before he heaves, and then he's throwing up, acrid whiskey-tinged bile burning his throat and his eyes watering.  
  
Even when his stomach is empty, the nausea still wriggles inside him. He just kissed his brother. _His baby brother_. He kissed Sammy. And it got him hard.  
  
Had Sam seen this coming? Was that why he'd tried to leave over and over? Maybe he'd felt this sickness creeping in, getting between them. Perhaps he'd known this would happen eventually. That Dean would fuck up and twist their love into something perverse. He'd said as much the day he came back.  
  
But Sam hadn't pulled away. Come to think of it, Sam had sort of started it. Dean is pretty sure he'd got out of bed and come over to him without any kind of provocation. And he hadn't tried to break it off and give his older brother the upper cut he deserved as it turned heated and wrong. He really hadn't. And now he thinks about it, it hadn't _exactly_ felt wrong. Dean's treacherous brain flashes him an aural replay of that moan, and he's clearly more screwed up than he knew because his cock is taking an interest again, even as guilty tears needle his eyes.  
  
Just then he feels a change in the air pressure and turns to see Sam standing in the open door.  
  
“Dude! You jimmied the lock? Seriously?” He croaks.  
  
“I was worried about you.”  
  
And to say Sam looks concerned would be an understatement. Dean feels something he can't name unfurl deep inside him as he carefully studies his brother's sea-green eyes in the harsh white light of the bathroom. There's a weird, warm pressure spreading through the lower regions of his body and for one bizarre second, Dean panics that he might have pissed his pants. What the fuck is wrong with him? Dean Winchester knows fear, but this is something else. A nervous buzz he's not felt since...since he was waiting for Lucifer to claim Sam.  
  
Sam snaps out of his paralysis and moves to Dean's side, wrapping one long arm around his back and taking his weight as Dean struggles to his feet. He feels him tense under his touch and backs off.  
  
Dean heads to the sink and uncaps the mouth wash. He takes a swig from the bottle and throws his head back to gargle. Sam remembers vividly watching him do that for a hundred plus Tuesdays straight, remembers the wink his brother gave him every morning, blissfully unaware of the numerous fates awaiting him until Sam found a way to get them out of the loop. Remembers how each day it became more and more difficult to watch that playfulness as his love warped and grew desperate. Wondering if each time would be the last chance.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says quietly. It's an affirmation. A question. An entreaty. And Sam marvels at how oftern he must have spoken the name. That, given how heavy and barbed it feels now, it's never hurt him like this on the way out before.  
  
Dean spits and turns to face Sam although his eyes shift restlessly.  
  
“Look at me.”  
  
Sam's voice is commanding and Dean raises his eyes to meet his brother's. He briefly considers throwing up again, but Sam must see something in his expression he wasn't intentionally giving because he finds himself being backed roughly against the wall, Sam's giant hands cupping his head, and that persuasive tongue working its way inside him.  
  
This time Dean worries he tastes of puke before his brain catches up and he remembers to freak out. But Sam has his head in a vice-like grip and he's not going anywhere. Then Sam does that moaning thing again and Dean's body responds the only way it can.  
  
Sam's deft fingers are pushing his jacket off his shoulders, manhandling him out of the sleeves. Then they are warm and gentle, working under his t-shirt and stroking his sides, the quivering muscles over his stomach. Dean leans into the touch because it feels so damn good and he's only human.  
  
Then Sam pulls back, leaving Dean stunned and panting for air.  
  
“I told you we weren't good for each other, Dean,” he half groans as he mashes his forehead against his brother's. “I can't do this any more. I can't stay away and I can't pretend what I feel for you is OK. We're so fucking messed up.”  
  
Sam's voice breaks on a sob and Dean's epiphany full body slams him: Sam wants him. And he wants Sam. It's probably been this way for longer than either of them can remember. Maybe this thing between them is older than they are.  
  
“We'll never be normal and we'll never be safe. All we have in this world is each other – seems like all we have outside of it too. And I thought if I pushed you away, maybe you'd grieve and then get on with your life. 'Cause one day we might be separated for good and the thought of that kills me, Dean. It kills me. So I figure best get it over with. But I can't stay away and you won't let me go.”  
  
Dean can feel tears soaking his tee at his collar bone and Sam's breath hot and moist at his neck as he makes his confession – hushed and hurried. He lifts his head, gently snarling his fingers in the soft, dark curls and tastes salt as he presses his mouth back to Sam's, swallowing the words he can't bear to listen to any longer.  


They stagger back into the bedroom, pushing, pulling, pawing at each other, both unsure who is driving this thing. Sam uses his teeth a lot, and Dean thinks how different this is to every kiss he's ever had before. It's almost violence. Sam is mesmerised by the soft plumpness of Dean's mouth, and he sucks the lower lip between his own, tasting and nipping, just this side of rough.  
  
Sam has the height advantage, as well as that of sobriety, so it's Dean who finds his legs backed up against the bed, trips and sprawls, Sam's weight knocking the breath out of him as he lands on top of his brother. Dean lets out a winded grunt, and says,  
  
“Jesus, Sammy. You weigh a freakin' ton.”  
  
He's rewarded with a smile which totally blindsides him. How long since he's seen those strong, white teeth, the way his brother's tongue presses up behind them when he grins, those dimples? Too long, he thinks. Then coherent thought goes out the window because Sam is grinding down into him, rolling his hips slowly and planting wet, open-mouthed kisses down his throat.  
  
“Oh God, Sammy – are you? I mean are we? We actually gonna do this?”  
  
Sam's voice is shaky and hot in his ear.  
  
“You want me to stop? We can stop, Dean. I mean we haven't actually...”  
  
He trails off and shudders as Dean presses his hips up in answer, and they seek each other's mouths again. It's sloppy and feral as they suck and nuzzle, and hunch against one another through their clothes. They are both breathing hard and trying their best to suppress the involuntary whimpers the friction is eliciting.  
  
Sam rears up and shucks off his t-shirt, then he's urging Dean up and pulling his over his head. Dean feels the warm, dry slide of Sam's chest against his own, and his hands come up around his brother's broad shoulders to feel hard muscle under pliant skin.  
  
He's put his hands on Sam innumerable times – checking for broken bones, swellings, stitching his wounds, sparring, teaching him how to hold a weapon – but he's never really _felt_ his body before. He can sense the power harnessed here, realises that even as Lucifer used his brother to pulp his face, some part that was still Sam must have been holding back or he would not have been fixable at all. It dawns that if he says 'no', if he tells Sam he doesn't want this, Sam could go ahead and take it anyway. The thought makes him shiver and he's not at all sure it's an unpleasant sensation.  
  
Sam's weight shifts and he's unbuckling Dean's belt, those lithe fingers popping the fly. Dean feels his hips being hoiked up, and Sam holds him clear of the bed with the span of one hand under his ass while he hauls his jeans down his legs. Once they're runkled around his knees, Sam slams him back to the matress and covers him again, pressing more fevered kisses into his gawping mouth.  
  
His pants down, Dean can't help but feel the full, hard weight of his brother through the thin sweats he's wearing, and his own boxers, rutting against his hip. He tries to remember the last time he saw what Sammy is packing and realises with another surge of nervous fear (and perhaps a small dose of envy) that he's _huge_ , and that pretty soon Dean wil be expected to do something with that.  
  
“Jesus, Sammy!” He mumurs into his brother's mouth. “You forget to leave your gun on the nightstand?”  
  
He hopes it sounds flip, but he knows his voice is wavering and Sam shoots him another of those debilitating smiles. His eyes are glassy, the pupils eclipsing the irises. The dried residue of tears shining on his cheeks.  
  
“Just pleased to see you, Dean. God! _Really_ fucking pleased.”  
  
Sam's words dissolve into a groan which Dean feels vibrate in his own chest.  
  
Dean's hands slide between them, his palms flat against Sam's chest seeking softness out of habit, but finding more unyielding flesh. It's jarring but thrilling all at once. He figures what's good for the goose is good for the gander and starts pinching and rolling Sam's nipples lightly between his thumbs and forefingers. Sam gasps and humps him harder before going stock still and screwing his face up in a pained expression.  
  
Dean is about to ask what's wrong, when he feels a warm dampness seep through his boxers, and it's his turn to grin as Sam's head falls onto his shoulder.  
  
“You should probably work on your staying power there, Sammy.”  
  
“Jerk,” Sam mutters from beneath his curtain of hair, and Dean feels pretty close to losing it himself as he whispers,  
  
“Bitch.”  
  
He figures he has the booze to thank for that fact he hasn't blown a load in his shorts yet, but now he feels awkward, painfully hard and unsure how to finish this.  
  
It could be that Sam still has some of his psychic powers stored away somewhere because he looks Dean straight in the eyes and says,  
  
“Want me to finish you with my mouth?”  
  
Dean has no idea how he's never noticed how hot Sam's voice is. All he can do is nod dumbly. He's pretty sure he'll be done for as soon as Sam so much as breathes on it, but if he's going to Hell (again) for fooling around with his brother he's going to make damn sure it's worth it.  
  
Sam smiles, but there is a touch of fear in his eyes. Dean recognises it from when he was a kid – he's never done this before - and pushes the thought away before the guilty sickness can wash over him again. They're too far along to shrug this off as an anomaly – a drunken and adrenaline fuelled accident. Dean feels flayed – exposed and broken down in ways he's never imagined. Not even with Alistair hissing taunts in his ear.  
  
Sam kisses and licks his way down the warm, soft skin of Dean's torso, taking care to memorise the taste and feel of every plane and dip and scar he finds. He feels a flush of pride when a swirl of his tongue around Dean's nipple gets his brother bucking of the bed and moaning. Encouraged, he moves down the bed until his face is level with the dark patch on the fabric of his brother's boxers and curls his fingers around the waist band. A quick look up confirms Dean is watching him in rigid anticipation so he make a show of moistening his lips in a way he hopes is seductive, and tugs.  
  
Dean's cock is intimidating up close. It's is thick and heavy with blood and Sam watches as it pulses in time with his heartbeat. The head is wet and glistening and there is a clear, viscous drop beaded at the slit. He shoves his doubts to one side and swipes his tongue out to lick at the fluid. He hears Dean's sharp intake of breath and is relieved to find the taste is not at all unpleasant. The familiar yet different amonia smell of his brother's arousal is addictive and Sam drinks it in before taking a deep breath and sinking his generous mouth down on Dean.  
  
Sam's never done this before, but he tries to do what he enjoys himself. He's careful to roll his lips over his teeth and he concentrates on making it nice and wet and taking as much down as he can. His cheeks hollow as he pulls back and he feels Dean trying to still himself when his hips piston up. Sam pulls off just long enough to say,  
  
“It's OK, Dean. You can fuck my mouth. I want you to come down my throat. Wanna taste you.”  
  
“Christ, Sammy!”  
  
And Dean is bucking frantically, knowing all too soon, and despite the haze of shame and liquor, he's about to get off harder than he ever has before.  
  
“Sam, Sammy,” he pants, threading his fingers in his brother's mop of hair, trying to go gentle. “I'm gonna...gonna shoot.”  
  
He feels Sam moan encouragment and grip his hips as wave after wave shudders through him, his nails leaving little crescent marks in his skin. It's so intense he feels tears start in his eyes and his taut belly clenches over and over until it aches.  
  
Sam swallows every drop his brother pumps onto his tongue. It's peppery and leaves a faint heat in his throat. Sam imagines he can taste whiskey, and feels a little intoxicated himself. He moves back up to watch Dean's face as the last ripples of his climax wash over him. He is beautiful, his eyes dark and glazed and his lips slightly parted, lashes wet. Sam leans into kiss him and Dean can smell himself on his brother's breath. He mildly surprised to find it doesn't gross him out and he opens up, smiling against Sam's lips when he feels Sam's interest reawakening against his thigh.  
  
“Looks like I'm not the only Winchester who cries his way through sex,” Sam smirks.  
  
Dean brings up a limp hand to cuff his head, but he ducks just in time. Then Sam is back at the foot of the bed, pushing Dean's knees up and apart and Dean's about to protest that he's too sensitive to be sucked any more when he feels hot breath further back, _there_. Sam slips his hands under Dean's hips again, tilting them up, and before Dean has time to fully register his intentions, he feels his brother's warm tongue lapping at his entrance.  
  
“Goddamn it, Sammy...what are you...?”  
  
But his words die in his throat as Sam's tongue breaches him and he squirms and humps helplessly at the strange but undeniably amazing sensation. Dean figures a guy who can count a demon and a werewolf amongst his conquests can't exactly be called vanilla, but Sam is far kinkier than he'd ever have imagined, and despite having come like a train barely two minutes before, this is getting him hard again. He's too turned on to be self conscious and Sam is moaning like he's the best thing he's ever tasted.  
  
Sam's tired of denying himself, and now he has Dean compliant if not exactly willing, he is determined to have everything. He's not sure they will survice this come sun-up, but right now it seems the only choice left to them. He plunges in deeper and deeper, tongue fucking his brother until he is fully hard again. He brings a finger up to drag along the puckered skin of his entrance and feels Dean tense.  
  
“It's OK, Dean. I'll take it slow. I promise I'll make it so good for you. Please let me...”  
  
Dean knows he's incapable of saying 'no' to Sam when he's like this – his hunger and desperation etched in stark relief on his features. If he's honest with himself, there is nothing he could refuse him at this particular point in time, not with the memory of his lips wrapped around him and his tongue inside him. But Sam is still babbling.  
  
“I just wanna, _please_ , Dean. I need to feel you. Need to be inside you. Wanna fuck you open, slow and deep, and hear you scream my name as you come. Wanna shoot deep inside you, make you mine.”  
  
“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean pants. “You're quite the potty mouth, aren't you.”  
  
He can't quite deal with this yet. He feels so adrift. There aren't words for how tangled up in Sam he is right now and the things his filthy declarations are doing to his mind. He is dizzy, short of breath, but manages to say,  
  
“Yeah. Yeah do it, Sam.”  
  
Then Sam's tongue is back and that finger is working its way slowly inside the tight ring of muscle. Dean doesn't have a great deal of experience in this department but he does know it's going to hurt like Hell unless he can relax. He's grateful for the mild anaesthetic of the whiskey coursing though his blood, and he takes deeps breaths, trying to open himself up to the intrusion. It's not exactly painful, but he feels weird and vulnerable and the thought of trying to take Sam's huge cock makes his pulse race. But then Sam crooks his finger just so and Dean feels an intense spark of pleasure.  
  
“Like that?” Sam asks quietly and Dean moans.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. I like that.”  
  
Sam continues to finger fuck his brother, hitting Dean's sweet spot over and over and using his tongue to slick his way until Dean is writhing and bearing down on his finger. He pulls out, sucks on two fingers this time and slowly pushes back in.  
  
A thought strikes Dean and a surge of possessive anger overwhelms him. Suddenly he needs to know.  
  
“Where'd you learn this, Sam?”  
  
Sam takes his mouth off just long enough to mumble,  
  
“Didn't. Never done this.”  
  
Dean's relief is laced with shame but he is beginning to understand the appeal of taking it up the ass. Sam is doing things to him with his mouth and fingers he can hardly believe. Although his brother hasn't touched his cock, he feels precariously close to the edge again and he entwines his hands in that thick mess of damp curls and pulls Sam's head up to tell him as much.  
  
“Now, Sam. You can fuck me now.”  
  
Sam smiles, but Dean can see he is trembling. He manoeuvres Dean up and turns him around, wrapping his long, sinewy arms around him from behind and pulling him close. Dean can feel Sam's heartbeat, frantic against his back. Sam shoves down his sweats and sticky underwear. He's hard and urgent against the back of Dean's thighs.  
  
Dean feels a blunt pressure against his ass and fights down the terror he feels threatening to bubble up. Sam slides his hand down and encloses Dean's swollen cock. He jacks it lazily as he trails kisses down the side of his neck and across his shoulders. Dean reaches behind himself and takes Sam in his hand. It's the first time he's touched his brother's cock and it's pretty daunting. It feels larger and harder in Dean's hand than his own.  
  
Sensing his hesitancy, Sam says,  
  
“We'll take it slow. If it hurts too bad, we'll stop.”  
  
Dean feels stretched out and...wet. It makes him feel girly and exposed and he's glad he has his back to Sam so his brother can't see him blush.  
  
Sam presses him down, bends him at the waist. He spits into his hand a few times and slicks himself up. He pushes Dean's legs a little wider apart, aligns himself and starts to push forward with his hips, just the tip of his cock slipping inside his brother. The engulfing heat is so tight that he gasps and stills, waiting for Dean to buck him off and perhaps punch him again.  
  
But Dean grits his teeth, drops his forehead to the pillow and tries to breathe through his nose. It burns pretty bad but his pain threshold has been somewhat adjusted by his time down below and he tells himself to take it like a man and impales himself another inch on his brother's cock.  
  
It's nearly all over for Sam at that point but he knows he'll never live it down if blows his load too soon again and he uses his massive hands to hold Dean's hips still. When they have both had time to adjust, he pushes forward again, stills, pushes in, stills, pushes in until he is buried to the hilt in his brothers tight, rippling heat.  
  
Dean feels so full, the burning pain reduced to a dull ache as his walls stretch around Sam's impressive girth. They are both breathing heavily and a rivulet of sweat runs down Sam's brow into his eye. He blinks.  
  
“OK,” says Dean hoarsely. “OK, Sammy – go for it.”  
  
Sam pulls back, excrutiatingly slow, and plows back in. It's still almost painfully tight, but his cock is steadily leaking now and it eases the way. The second thrust is easier, the third feels almost too good, and then they are really fucking. Sam tries to think of something else to stave off his impending orgasm, but every fibre of him is focussed on his brother and the tight, clutching heat dragging him in like a vortex.  
  
Sam is hitting places inside him that Dean didn't even know were there and he's turned on beyond all reason despite his shame. Perhaps _because_ of it. He finds he can't stop thinking about the fact that this is his brother – this is his Sammy – popping his cherry, making him feel things he's never even considered. He's getting off on that thought as much as the physical sensation of his brother's cock pounding into him. It's so dirty and wrong but he clings to it, Sam's name falling repeatedly from his lips like a mantra.  
  
“Dean!” Sam groans in answer, and it's so needy, so primal that Dean knows it will stay with him forever.  
  
“Dean – I can't – have to come. I'm gonna come, Dean.”  
  
“Do it, Sammy. Come for me. Oh Jesus. You feel so good. Fuck me hard, Sam. Come on - give it to me.”  
  
And Sam speeds up, bucking into Dean as hard and violently as he needs. Dean is about to reach for his own cock, but before he even touches it, Sam cries,  
  
“Love you, Dean. Mine. _Always_.”  
  
And damned if that doesn't bring him off, his come pulsing out in weak jets which soak into the bedspread as he hollers Sam's name, just as Sam promised he would.  
  
Sam follows Dean over the edge with a strangled shout and Dean feels the warm swell of liquid deep inside him as his little brother's hips stutter erratically.  
  
They slump forward, Dean pinned under Sam's substantial weight, still wedged open by his brother's softening cock. Sam is nuzzling at the bristly, sweat soaked hair on the back of his neck and sighing, and Dean doesn't have the heart to shrug him off even though it's getting hard to breathe.  
  
He feels like maybe he should say something. He's tempted to alleviate the aftermath of this cataclysm with a throwaway remark, but then he realises there is no point. Sam is inside him – literally and figuratively – and he can't hide anymore. Maybe he doesn't want to.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
It's barely a whisper.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy?”  
  
“Next time I wanna see your face.”  
  
Dean shivers and it's nothing to do with the sweat rapidly cooling on his skin. No more hiding. He swallows thickly, breathes as deeply as the crushing weight on his back will allow and steps off the edge.  
  
“Yeah. OK Sammy. Anything. Anything you want.”

  
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